


Respite

by lapsus_calami



Series: No One Chooses This Life [4]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bobby is the best surrogate father, Crossover, Dean tries to be nice, Gen, Hunter!Stiles, Spark!Stiles, Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover, and despite being titled respite it is not restful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:49:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Training at Singer’s is mostly a pain in the ass. Literally. But Stiles is doing his best and he’s more stubborn than some people realize (and less okay than some people think).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Передышка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497454) by [hisaribi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisaribi/pseuds/hisaribi), [OhotnikiNaNechist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhotnikiNaNechist/pseuds/OhotnikiNaNechist)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training at Singer’s is mostly a pain in the ass. Literally. But Stiles is doing his best and he’s more stubborn than some people realize (and less okay than some people think).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I'm back with chapter one of part four of NOCTL. That's right. I acronymed it because I was tired of typing the damn thing out. So enjoy this dialogue and emotional angst heavy chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> (Yes, I know it's two thirty in the morning. It's technically Monday.)

**Respite**

Stiles grunted as he once again landed on his ass in a puff of dust. Sharp pains from the impact raced up along his spine and down his legs. But he paid it no heed and immediately pushed himself back to his feet. Dean grinned bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet and looking like he was having the time of his goddamn life. Stiles took a deep breath and nodded slightly to indicate his readiness to go again.

Within a couple minutes he was eating dirt again, this time shoved forward into the ground with Dean’s hand on his shoulder and a hand trapped behind his back. Fuck. He shook his arm out to regain feeling when Dean let him up, going so far as to roll his shoulders in an effort to mitigate some of the pain. Gritting his teeth he tugged on his spark to push a healing burst of energy through his limbs, just enough to take the edge off.

He made it longer this time, almost a whole five minutes, but all the same Dean had him beat.

It made Stiles angry.

Logically he knew it was impossible for him to be anywhere near Dean’s skill level after only a few weeks, but he couldn’t help it. Sometimes it was all he could do to push away the feeling of being under threat and the idea that somewhere there was a giant countdown clock silently ticking away. A clock he was aware of but couldn’t look at to check the time left. Each day that slipped through his fingers was beginning to feel like a wasted opportunity. Each day the figurative noose around his neck and chest cinched tighter making it harder to breathe and harder to sleep.

Here he was almost six months into his self-imposed exile, and he wasn’t sure he was where he was supposed to be. He didn’t want to admit it, but it kind of felt like he was spiraling again, losing hold on his emotions and thoughts. Sinéad had explained to him that his spark would be affected by his moods, something that hadn’t exactly instilled feelings of joy with him. Stiles wasn’t stupid, he knew he wasn’t exactly the most emotionally stable person. Never really had been.

Stiles coughed, the air in his lungs forced out as his back slammed into the ground. Again. Rocks and sticks pressed uncomfortably into his shoulder blades and spine, and the hunter was a heavy weight on top of him. Dean squinted down at him, breathing hard and sweaty, but victorious all the same.

“Maybe it’s time to call it quits for the day,” Dean said releasing his hold on Stiles’ wrists. “Shower and hit the books instead. Or go for a run if you feel like it.”

Half of Stiles wanted to seize the out. Wanted to say, “Sure, man, sounds good.” The other half wanted to growl and shove Dean off. Demand they go again. He did neither.

Dean stepped off him, holding a hand out to help Stiles up. He seemed to take Stiles’ silence as acquiesce, turning to pick up the water bottles and sweat towel from the rickety picnic table.

“Again,” Stiles said.

Dean arched an eyebrow in surprise, pausing mid-drink. “You serious?” he asked, wiping a hand across his mouth to catch the extra water. Stiles nodded and fell into a ready pose. Dean shrugged, tossing the rag back on the picnic table along with the bottle. “Okay then.”

That match ended no different than the rest. With Stiles on his ass in the dirt.

“Again,” Stiles said pushing himself to his feet. Dirt and small pebbles clung to his sweaty hands, digging into his palms slightly as he clenched his fists.

Dean rolled his eyes. It took six moves for Stiles to be kissing grass once more. His side throbbed from where Dean had punched him and the palm of his left hand stung where it scraped across the rocks. He grit his teeth and pushed himself up. “Again.”

“Stiles, seriously, it’s time for a break. This isn’t helping—”

“Again,” Stiles repeated louder.

Four moves. Stiles spit out some of the dirt he’d managed to inhale and brushed coarse particles of rock from his stinging jaw. “Again.”

Three moves, and Stiles was pretty he had a split lip now. It smarted as he grimaced. “Again.”

“For fucks sake,” Dean breathed. He attacked before Stiles was even fully standing. Faster and more deadly than before, he wrapped Stiles in a tight hold in one fluid move pulling him back against his chest. “Are you done yet?” he whispered in Stiles’ ear harshly hands crushing Stiles’ wrists hard enough the bones were grinding.

Stiles huffed straining against Dean’s hold over his chest and increasingly irritated when he accomplished nothing. He pulled harder, frustrated that even after a whole week he was just as helpless against a seasoned hunter as ever. The feeling of being trapped with no way out, even if it was just sparring, sent something hot and savage surging through him. With a snarl his spark rush forward, flooding outward into his arms and giving him the strength to twist free of Dean’s hold. Stiles took the hunter by surprise, neatly executing a move Dean had used on him earlier to knock Dean forward to the ground, twist the hunter's arm behind his back, and pin him.

And how pathetic was it that even now after everything he learned and could do he was still weak and defenseless without resorting to his spark.

“Easy, tiger,” Dean said craning his head around to peer at Stiles and meaningfully wiggling his fingers. Stiles immediately let go, jerking his hands back like he’d been burned and standing aside to allow Dean up.

“Sorry,” he said carefully reining his spark in and stepping further away from Dean as the hunter sat up with a wince, gingerly rolling his shoulder. Dean slowly rotated his wrist then flexed his fingers. Stiles swallowed heavily, pushing down the urge to flee but unable to stop the habitual fidgeting. He tapped his thumb and fingers together rapidly counting over and over. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Stiles. Or have you already forgotten who really kicked ass today?” Dean said smile near shark-like as he stood and wiggled his eyebrows at Stiles.

Stiles frowned clenching his hands and forcing himself to stop counting. “No, you don’t have to remind me,” he muttered shouldering past Dean towards the house. His hands were shaking again, fine tremors he could feel vibrating down to his bones. His spark was thrumming, a vibrant hum straining at the edges of his control.

“Hey,” Dean called jogging to catch up and yanking on Stiles’ shoulder to spin him around. “Why are you pushing so hard? It’s been _one week_. You can’t expect yourself to be even an eighth as good as I am in that amount of time. It doesn’t work like that.”

Stiles shook Dean’s hand off, feeling fragile in a way he didn’t want to address. Dean’s touch was suffocating at the moment, something Stiles didn’t want to feel right now. “I know that,” he said trying to stamp out any bitterness in his tone. He was largely unsuccessful but hoped the hunter wouldn’t notice. Of course, Dean being Dean, he noticed.

“So why are you pushing yourself so hard?” Dean repeated. He paused, eyes narrowing as he gazed at Stiles intently before asking, “What are you running from?”

“I’m not running from anything,” Stiles snapped.

Dean scoffed, skirting to stand between Stiles and the house, effectively blocking his path. “Oh really?” Dean said placing a solid hand on Stiles’ chest. “Because it sure seems like you’re running from something. You show up out of the blue eating up all the supernatural information you can get your hands on, and you put up a big fuss about learning to fight? I gotta say, Stiles, that throws up a lot of red flags.” He paused and softened his gaze a little pressing his hand a little harder against Stiles’ chest. Not to push or direct, just to steady. “You have to realize that.”

“I’m not running from something,” Stiles said shoving Dean’s hand off him once more. “I’m running _towards_ something.”

Dean’s face screwed up in an expression of pure confusion for a moment. “ _Towards_ something? What exactly are you running towards here?”

Stiles shook his head because he knew Dean wouldn’t get it. His throat was feeling tight again, like he couldn’t quite get enough air in his lungs. “I don’t know!” he cried. “The ability to survive? The chance to feel safe again? To stop feeling like I’m under constant threat? I’ll take any of that!”

Dean’s expression softened further, something akin to understanding showing in his eyes. “Stiles, do you really think learning how to fight ghosts and wendigos is going to fix that?”

“No, not really,” Stiles admitted, “but it’s a start.” He started to walk towards the house again when Dean cut him off once more. He rolled his eyes starting to feel a little like Dean was hounding him. “What now?”

“You need to get more invested then.”

Stiles squinted uncomprehendingly. Maybe he just wasn’t thinking very clearly right now, but that made no sense. “What?” he repeated.

Dean nodded his head back towards where they’d been sparring. “You’re not invested enough in learning this; not if you want to do it fast. You’re not angry enough. You’re not scared enough. You’re not desperate enough. You have to want to succeed. You have to stop holding yourself back.” 

Stiles blinked, unconsciously taking a step away before saying, “I’m not holding myself back.” It sounded like he was lying even to himself.

“Yes, you are. That last match right there,” Dean said pointing over to the spot they had been sparring and taking a step closer. “The one where you managed to knock me on my ass, that was you not holding back. Every one before that was you holding back.”

Stiles withdrew another step. “I’m not holding back,” he reiterated a glimmer of panic sliding into his tone. “Just leave it alone.”

“Are you worried about hurting me?” Dean asked, ignoring Stiles’ last request and crowding towards him even more. “Is that it? That's stupid. You have to want to, Stiles. You have to want to hurt me to make this work.”

Stiles halted his slow retreat lashing out at Dean’s chest. He shoved the older hunter hard although Dean barely faltered in his advance. Stiles heart thundered in his chest and his lungs fluttered shallowly. The world glared brilliantly and his head pounded. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I don't _want_ to hurt anyone. That’s the point.”

“Well good,” Dean said disparagingly like he couldn’t tell Stiles was two seconds away from a panic attack. “Because you can’t. You can’t hurt me. You’re too hesitant, too cautious. You don’t use your full potential. So you’ll never hurt me. You’ll never hurt anyone or anything. You’ll always need someone else to prot—Fuck!”

Stiles swallowed hard, hand smarting and chest heaving. The air around him was charged, almost electrified, and he made a conscious effort of bundling his spark up and tucking it away for safekeeping. He eyed Dean briefly, the man bent over and pressing his hand over his face swearing, before stalking by without another word. He felt wound tight, like a coiled spring, and he had an inkling that was just the reaction Dean had been pushing for.

“Stiles,” Dean called, voice a little thick and strained. Stiles slowed but didn't look back or stop. He needed to be inside and alone. Preferably locked in the upstairs bathroom. “Take a break. We’re going for a run in two hours,” he said.

Stiles nodded and continued on his way, brushing past Bobby who gave him an inscrutable look that somehow seemed comprised of a mixture of approval, admonishment, and concern.

“And ice your fucking hand!” Dean hollered.

* * *

“Why’d ya do that?” Bobby asked once Stiles was inside and out of earshot. Boy had looked angry sure, but he’d also looked more than a little rattled.

Dean glanced at him tipping his head back just a little as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do what?” he asked wincing a bit and gingerly wiping at the blood on his face with the rag.

Bobby sighed stepping off the porch and taking hold of Dean’s face to inspect the damage. “Provoke that boy into punching you in the face,” he said gruffly prodding gently at Dean’s nose and slightly gratified when the younger hunter grimaced. Thankfully it seemed Stiles hadn’t managed to break anything. Just a bloody nose and split lip.

Dean shrugged Bobby’s hands off turning back to the old picnic tables. “Wanted to see if he had it in him. And, boy, does he. None of the other hits he managed to land packed half that power.”

“He is, you know,” Bobby said crossing his arms.

Dean paused in gathering up the water bottles and towels. “Is what?”

“Scared. He’s scared of us. He’s scared of the things we hunt. He’s scared of where he is and what he’s doing,” Bobby said fighting the urge to roll his eyes like the child he no longer was anymore. He was getting to old for this crap. Dean was smart boy, he was, but sometimes he forgot to use his goddamn brain.

Dean took a drink of water squinting at Bobby questioningly. “Didn’t know you were a mind reader,” he commented.

Bobby gave in and rolled his eyes. “I ain’t,” he groused. “But I ain’t stupid either. So it’s easy to tell that the young man who showed up alone on my doorstep basically fell into all this supernatural crap and based on personal experience I know that’s scary.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Dean said. Bobby raised an eyebrow silently prompting Dean to expand. Dean took a quick swig of water. “I mean I’m not sure he just fell into this. He told me on the last hunt his family and friends all know about the supernatural. And I assume they know about hunters because he mentioned them not being exactly happy that he’s staying with Dad and me.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s alone in this right now,” Bobby said but he filed the information away for future contemplation.

Dean frowned raising his eyebrows in an almost comical look of confusion. “No he’s not. He has us.”

Bobby sighed. It was like explaining things to a four year old. Dean’s logic was sometimes strikingly innocent. “Do you really think that boy trusts you, Dean?” he asked patiently.

Dean blinked, eyebrows climbing even higher. “Yeah,” he said drawing the word out.

“Then I hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but Stiles don’t trust you. He doesn’t trust any of us.”

Dean snorted, a muffled and stuffy sound with his bloodied nose. “That’s ridiculous.”

Bobby stared at him nonplussed.

“No, Bobby, why would he want to stay with me and Dad so badly if he didn’t trust us at least a little?” Dean asked.

“Why do you think any amount of trust is a prerequisite?” Bobby replied. “Why don’t you understand that a young man from God knows where after encountering God knows what might not trust two grown men who hunt down evil things and regularly burn corpses of dead people but still need their help?”

“Because he wants to stay,” Dean argued. “Because he talks to me. Because he—”

“He talks to you,” Bobby repeated. “Really? Okay. What’s his real name?” Dean stared at him open mouthed. “Can’t tell me? How about where he’s from? Still nothing?” Bobby crossed his arms warming up to his questions. “How old is he? What made him track me down to find you? For the record, how did he find me? What about his family? His friends? Why—”

Dean sighed loudly going to run his hands over his face and stopping with a wince when he hit his nose. “Okay, fine. What am I supposed to do then?”

“You need to work differently with him,” Bobby said.

Dean frowned looking puzzled. “And what do you mean by that?”

“You’re teaching him like your daddy taught you and Sam. Showing him one or two things and then beating the crap outta him until he figures it out from there and expecting him to dish it back at you the same way.”

Dean sighed again closing his eyes briefly before saying, “Your point?”

“He’s not comfortable with that, obviously,” Bobby said shrugging. “So change it. Teach him more defense than offence. Walk him through it slowly. Don’t punch him and don’t expect him to punch you.”

“He asked us to teach him how to hunt, Bobby. He kind of needs to know how to fight.”

Bobby nodded. “Sure. And yet promises of learning how to beat the ever-living shit out of a shapeshifter or werewolf didn't get him to punch you in the face. Telling him he’d never be able to protect himself did. So before you teach him how to kill something maybe you should teach how to defend himself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted on Wednesday!
> 
> As always...my [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training at Singer’s is mostly a pain in the ass. Literally. But Stiles is doing his best and he’s more stubborn than some people realize (and less okay than some people think).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful comments! I appreciate every single one of them!
> 
> More dialogue and angst! (Honestly that's all this story is comprised of so...deal with it.)

**Respite**

Stiles padded down the stairs of the motel slowly. He could see a solitary figure standing in the parking lot below, back towards him and cloaked in shadow. The night was oppressively quiet around him, the only sound his rapid breaths and soft whisper of his socks against the wood beneath his feet.

The railing was smooth under his fingers, worn from use over the years, as he grasped it to steady himself. The stairs creaked loudly under his weight but the person in the lot didn’t turn to face him. The pavement was cold even through his socks and the small pebbles pricked uncomfortably at his skin.

As he got closer details began to come into focus. The person’s dark hair was hanging heavy around their head, which was bowed low. They were clad in dark clothes, a form fitting long sleeved t-shirt, a black skirt, and low-heeled boots. Light gleamed off the wet tresses and every so often a drop of liquid fell from their fingertips to the ground, creating small ripples in the pool gathered below them.

Stiles swallowed hard, socks getting soaked instantly as he stepped into the puddle.

“Allison?”

She didn’t respond. Gave no reaction that she’d even heard him. Stiles licked his lips stepping farther closer.

“Allison?”

 It was only a few steps before he was able to reach out and touch her shoulder. He did so with a trembling hand, fingers brushing ever so lightly across her soaked shoulder. She turned slowly her hair hiding her face from him.

“Allison.”

“Why?” she whispered so softly he could barely hear her. Stiles drew his hand back as she looked up, eyes blank and lips tinged red. She had something clenched in her left hand.“Why didn’t you save me?”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. He still couldn’t see her face clearly as it was shrouded in shadow. “I tried. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“You could have tried harder,” Allison said opening her hand to reveal a small BIC lighter. She thumbed the wheel prompting a small flame to life. Stiles took a hesitant step away watching the little flame dance rapidly. The sharp smell of gasoline flooded his senses and for the first time he realized they were standing in a puddle of fuel.

“Allison,” he rasped out. “Allison, please.”

There was a slight scuff behind him and Stiles whirled, heart stuttering to a painful halt. Lydia stood before him, long hair heavy and wet and pretty floral dress soaked through. She stared at him blankly a moment then opened her mouth and screamed.

Stiles pressed his hands to his ears, somehow still heard the faint clatter of the lighter hitting the pavement. Then everything was swept away in a haze of fire and heat.

* * *

Stiles sat up with a gasp, nearly toppling off the small twin bed Bobby had set up for him before he reoriented himself to his surroundings and his brain caught on to the fact that he wasn’t actually burning to death. Dean snuffled sleepily in the bed across the room, and Stiles froze biting his lip and hoping the hunter would stay asleep. Dean had been more prone to waking up and asking Stiles if he was all right since the hunt in Oklahoma. It was an odd sort of annoying having the hunter inquire about his well being, and at the moment Stiles didn’t want to deal with him.

He took a steadying breath, sending a small surge of energy in Dean’s direction and believing the hunter would stay asleep. Once Dean settled down, Stiles slipped from the room and made his way downstairs. He briefly contemplated going for a run but decided Dean would probably have more enough physical activity planned for him later today.

Since Stiles had punched the man in the face the other day training had gone a little differently. Rather than just showing Stiles a few new moves, walking him through the motions once or twice, and then insisting they spar, Dean had switched to only focusing on teaching Stiles specific moves and tactics. They hadn’t actually sparred in two days and Stiles found it much easier to focus on learning the movements in the calmer environment where half of his attention wasn’t anxiously tied into controlling his spark. Dean had also switched up the style of fighting he was teaching Stiles. Originally the movements had predominantly been offensive, but the past two days had been all about teaching Stiles to predict his opponent’s’ movements, dodge, block, deflect, and escape holds.

John had left yesterday to go help another hunter out with a wendigo problem in Minnesota leaving Dean behind to work with Stiles; Dean had seemed low-key pissed about the fact but kept up teaching Stiles regardless. Stiles wanted to see John leaving Dean with him as some sort of sign that John was actually still contemplating allowing Stiles to stay, but the truth of the matter was John hadn’t had said more than three words to Stiles between the time they arrived in Sioux Falls and the time he left.

Stiles yawned and stretched, trailing his fingers along the books that cluttered Bobby’s living room as he crossed to the desk. He flicked on the lamp and flipped his notebook to the page he’d left off on not three hours ago.

Bobby’s library was a verifiable goldmine and he was taking every bit of information he could get his hands on back with him because the Argent’s bestiary was only going to get them so far. Not to mention it was in archaic Latin, which, despite his best efforts, he was only still barely proficient at. A good chunk of Bobby’s books were in other languages as well, but quite a few were in English and some that were not had notes attached that allowed him to make sense of it enough anyway.

Currently he was working his way through an old Christian text about demonic possession, taking detailed notes on signs of possession, protective sigils and charms, methods of containing the demon, and exorcisms. Bobby had given him an odd look when he’d seen which book Stiles was pouring over last night making some comment about the rarity of cases of demonic possession. Stiles had asked for a specific count—“Normal year, I hear about three maybe four cases top. Why do you ask?”—before neatly steering the conversation away from the topic—“No reason. Just curious.” Bobby had looked suspicious but had let it go, instead answering some of Stiles’ more inane questions about ghosts and vampires, anything he could think of to keep the focus off demons. But even as he rambled on questioning the effectiveness of garlic—“Like I said, Stiles, vampires are extinct but even when they weren’t garlic was about as effective as a cheerleading pompom.”—his mind kept circling back to what Bobby had said.

He’d wondered if Nogitsune possessions were included in that tally; wondered how common they were in the states in the first place. Wondered if his possession was one of the three or four and, if it wasn’t, how many possessions went unnoticed by the hunting community. A very brief trip into personal accounts from survivors of demonic possessions online, however reliable he could consider those to be, had left him sick to his stomach and his head spinning. That trip was no doubt at least partially responsible for the less than three hours sleep he’d gotten.

Stiles yawned again and settled more comfortably on the chair beginning the slow process of diligently copying out the entire Latin exorcism. It probably wouldn’t be effective against any sort of demon other than the ones from traditional Christian lore, but it wouldn’t hurt to have it anyway.

* * *

Bobby made his way down the stairs still half asleep. He yawned, grimacing as his jaw cracked, and rubbed at his eyes before running a hand uselessly through his hair. He blinked as he passed the living room and checked his watch half convinced he’d managed to only think he’d slept because Stiles was sat in the same place and nearly the same position Bobby had left him in not five hours ago.

 “Good lord, boy, don’t you ever sleep?” Bobby asked through a yawn. Stiles looked up from the table where he was still pouring over books. If Bobby wasn’t mistaken then Stiles was still leafing through the Key of Solomon text. He glanced at his watch then frowned at Bobby.

“It’s only five-thirty,” he said.

Bobby nodded wearily rubbing at his forehead. “Yeah, in the morning. The sun’s not even up. Aren’t you kids supposed to sleep until noon?”

“Sure,” Stiles replied flipping a page in his book. “Mostly because we’re up until five-thirty.”

“I’ve never seen you sleep until noon,” Bobby remarked. Hell, he’d barely seen the boy sleep. In fact if it wasn’t for Dean telling him otherwise, he’d half be convinced Stiles didn’t sleep.

“So?”

“So when do you sleep? Because you’re usually awake when I go to sleep and you’re usually awake when I get up. Dean said the same.”

Stiles furrowed his brows squinting at the text like it personally offended him before scribbling in his notebook. “I sleep when I’m tired.”

Bobby crossed his arms with a sigh. “You always look tired.”

“Well maybe I have a naturally exhausted expression,” Stiles said with a shrug. “Or maybe I’m just tired of people asking me when I sleep.”

Bobby shook his head but shuffled into the kitchen deciding it was too early to deal with Stiles’ smart mouth. He started making breakfast after deciding it wasn’t worth trying to go back to sleep for just a half hour more of sleep. He was partway through frying some bacon and just getting ready to start on the eggs when Stiles joined him.

Without asking the boy pulled out a frying ban and took the carton of eggs from Bobby’s hands. He placed a pad of butter in the pan, turning the heat on low before cracking an egg and dumping it in.

“So are the nightmares why you don’t sleep?” Bobby asked leaning his hip on the counter. Stiles jerked, fingers shattering the shell of the egg. The egg white and yoke dripped down his fingers into the sink.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said shaking his hands off with a look of disgust and turning the water on to rinse.

“Dean told me,” Bobby said.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Jesus, does that man tell you everything?”

“Almost,” Bobby said. “So, is it the nightmares?”

Stiles huffed cracking another egg with more vigor. “Sometimes, okay? Are you happy now? Sometimes I can’t sleep because of nightmares. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“What about the other times then?”

Stiles eyed him suspiciously from the corner of his gaze. “What other times?”

“Well,” Bobby said moving to start making a batch of toast. He stuck four slices of bread into his ancient toaster that was still chugging along determinedly despite having been rebuilt two and a half times. “You said sometimes it’s because of nightmares. Why aren’t you sleeping when it’s not nightmares?” Bobby asked pressing the button down adjusting the nob to the magic number three so the toast would be just the right amount of partially charred.

“Habit,” Stiles muttered dropping an egg in the skillet with more force than necessary. The yoke broke and Stiles frowned at the smear of yellow. He prodded it with a spatula then sighed heavily apparently accepting it as destined to be cooked over hard.

“You know,” Bobby said moving around Stiles to dig the butter out of the back of the refrigerator and glancing periodically over at Stiles as he spoke deliberately using a musing tone. “You seem like a resilient kid. I mean anyone who can stand hunting with John Winchester’s got to have some balls. Makes me wonder what sort of crap you went through to give you bad enough nightmares that you routinely don’t sleep.”

Bobby pulled the butter from the refrigerator and set it on the counter turning his full attention to Stiles. “Whatever you went through, I just want you to know you’re a stronger person for coming out the other side in one piece. Nightmares or not you survived. Not everyone who encounters the supernatural can say that. But you made it and there would be no fault in letting it at that.”

Stiles froze as Bobby talked and for a moment the older hunter thought he was just listening intently. Then his hands started to shake. Minutely at first, then harder, digging in just that little bit more into the egg so that it cracked, beginning to leak into the sink.

Bobby reached over, rescuing the egg from Stiles hands before nudging the boy aside and neatly depositing it into the frying pan with the others. Stiles clenched his hands closed, tucking them in close to his stomach and taking deep, measured breaths.

“Are you okay?” Bobby asked pitching his voice low and non-threatening.

Stiles nodded frantically, breathing out sharply from his nose and twisting his fingers into his hoodie sleeves. “I’m fine,” he said. “Fine. I’m fine. I’m—” The words seemed to catch in his throat and then he was shaking his head, dragging in deep, shuddering breaths, and fucking hell Bobby made the boy cry. That wasn’t what he meant to do at all.

“Stiles?”

“I'm not,” Stiles said pushing his hands into his eyes and taking desperate, rapid breaths. “I'm not really. I’m not okay. I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I don’t know if I should be here. I don’t know if John is even going to let me stay. I don’t know what they’ll do…I don’t know if I made the right choice to leave home. I don’t know if I can go back. I don’t know if I’ll even have anything to go back to, and I’m _terrified_. I’m terrified all the time, and I’m terrified of _everyone_.”

Bobby let the silence hang for a moment then said, “I figured as much.”

Stiles stared at him, a little stricken.

“You can tell yourself and everyone else that you’re okay til you’re blue in the face, but it’s pretty clear you’re not,” Bobby said quietly. “Just…whatever happened to you. I want you to know that you are as safe as you can be here with John, Dean, and I. You can trust me on that.”

Stiles laughed, almost hysterically, immediately raising a hand as if to cover it up. He skittered his gaze away from Bobby, staring somewhere over at the wall. “I know,” he said after a moment moving back to the stove and turning the heat on low for the eggs. Bobby noticed his hands were still trembling somewhat. The toast popped up with twang of old springs and Stiles flinched at the sudden sound.

“I mean it, Stiles,” Bobby said pulling the slices out to slather on butter. “You’re safe here.”

Stiles nodded jerkily, but Bobby had a feeling that Stiles didn’t quite believe him.

* * *

Breakfast was a somber affair; Stiles didn’t said a word the whole time, simply staring at his plate and moodily pushing food around. Bobby tried to direct a few questions at him interspaced between conversation with Dean, but the younger boy always shrugged and avoided Bobby’s gaze. If anything Stiles’ reaction to Bobby making it clear he wasn’t buying the façade Stiles’ was trying to sell reinforced his belief that the boy didn’t trust any of them. In fact Bobby would go as far as to say Stiles was actively afraid of them, though he couldn’t quite figure out why. Hunters certainly didn’t have a reputation for outstanding kindness, especially John, but they also didn’t have a reputation for killing or otherwise harming perfectly innocent kids. The caveat on that line of thought was that Stiles  _wasn’t_ some perfectly innocent kid, but watching Stiles barely pick at his eggs with red rimmed eyes really painted the picture of pathetic orphan.

“So,” Dean said suddenly, swallowing a mouthful of bacon and raising an inquiring eyebrow at Stiles, “you ready for some heavy PT today? Thought we could work in some offensive moves today. You know, like counterattacks. You’re doing pretty well with the defense.”

Stiles just shrugged breaking a crispier piece of bacon apart with his fork. Dean looked offended, though whether it was because of Stiles’ lack of response or his mutilation of the bacon Bobby wasn’t sure.  

“I’d imagine so,” Bobby remarked when it was clear Stiles wasn’t going to actually answer. “He’s only been up since five-thirty.”

Dean’s expression immediately morphed into something akin to concern, and Stiles dropped his fork with a clatter glaring at Bobby. The older hunter sniffed indifferently, after all the things he’d hunted a glaring child hardly held any heat, and rose to take his dishes to the sink, beginning to fill it with hot soapy water. Stiles copied him, dutifully scraping his uneaten food off his plate before dumping it in the sink and disappearing from the kitchen.

“Okay. What was that?” Dean asked after a beat.

“Teenagers,” Bobby muttered shutting off the facet and swirling the water to get more soap bubbles.

“He’s twenty,” Dean said coming up beside Bobby and sliding his plate and fork into the sink. “So technically not a teenager.”

Bobby harrumphed. Twenty his ass. Nothing that came out of that kids mouth was a hundred percent honest, and Bobby would bet half his library Stiles wasn’t a day over eighteen if that. He’d been trying to work Stiles’ story out since he sent the kid off to find John, but there wasn’t much to go on. Stiles hadn’t given him a real name, an accurate age, family information, any inkling of a hometown or even a home state, or even a hint of why Stiles’ got into hunting in the first place. The most Bobby had on the kid was what he’d divulged this morning, which beyond getting a better read on his emotional state told Bobby absolutely nothing.

Stiles clamored down the stairs with heavy steps and the back screen door slammed behind him as he exited the house.

“He’s in a sour mood isn’t he?” Dean asked sounding somewhat rhetorical as he watched Stiles stalk across the yard through he kitchen window.

Bobby sighed plunging his hands into the hot water and beginning to scrub at the plates leaving the silverware for last. “No, Dean,” he corrected washing away bacon grease and bits of egg, “he’s just scared.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three will be posted Friday! 
> 
> [Follow](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you like ^_^


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training at Singer’s is mostly a pain in the ass. Literally. But Stiles is doing his best and he’s more stubborn than some people realize (and less okay than some people think).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Skips innocently through a field while whistling* 
> 
> Did you think the angst was at an all time high last chapter? Well think again.

**Respite**

Stiles was waiting at the picnic table, sitting slumped over with his head in his hands when Dean finally left the house. He padded over to the other boy quietly, saying nothing as he sat down and began pulling on the laces of his old sneakers to tighten them. Stiles didn’t move and made no indication that he was even aware Dean had sat down next to him. Dean didn’t think Stiles was unobservant enough to miss something like that though.

“Figured we’d start with an easy run,” he said finally. “Warm up before sparring.”

Evidently Stiles had been aware of his presence because he just sighed lightly and turned his head to regard Dean wearily. He looked exhausted, dark circles under red-rimmed eyes and slumped shoulders. If Dean didn’t know better he’d say it looked like Stiles had been crying.

“When is the last time you got a good night’s rest?” Dean asked giving the laces of his sneaker one last tug and tying them deftly.

Stiles shrugged again. “Dunno,” he muttered picking at the hem of his old shorts. “Been a couple months I suppose.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Dean replied squinting over at Stiles as he laced up his other shoe. “Like, you need to sleep, dude.”

Stiles rolled his eyes abandoning the edge of his shorts and standing up. He seemed to visibly gather himself, taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders. After a moment it was almost like a whole other person was standing in front of him. “That’s sweet, Dean, really,” he said and even his voice sounded different, weariness wiped away and scathing scorn in it’s place. “Thanks for the concern, but you don’t need to worry.”

Dean frowned at the sarcasm and wondered how much of Stiles’ daily conversations were total acts. He’d been aware that Stiles was inherently dishonest with what he said; hell the dude told the absolute truth about as often as Dean did, although there were instances where Dean was sure Stiles _was_ honest, the motel bathroom in Oklahoma being one of them. To see the mask pulled on so expertly though was like looking in a mirror.

  “I’m not worried,” Dean said matching Stiles’ tone and finishing up the double knot on his shoe before standing to face Stiles. “But if you stay it’ll be your job to watch my back. Which means I need you sharp not perpetually sleep deprived.” He began to stretch, warming up his muscles for the run, adding in a few half-assed jumping jacks to get his blood pumping, and watching Stiles’ reaction closely.

Stiles regarded him with a sour look. “I don’t really think I have much of a shot at staying anymore,” he said moving to mimic Dean’s motions with much less enthusiasm.

“Hey, you don’t know that,” Dean protested. “Dad’s still thinking it over.”

“He said literally three things to me then ran off to Minnesota to hunt a wendigo,” Stiles said frankly. “That doesn’t exactly bode well.”

Dean shrugged bouncing on the balls of his feet. “True. But there’s still a chance. Slim sure, but still a chance.”

“A slim chance,” Stiles repeated then sighed. “I’ve counted on less before so why not? So, to where are we running this fine and beautiful morning?”

Dean quirked an eyebrow sensing yet another story beneath Stiles first comment before deciding to let it go and answering his question, “Figured we’d run a perimeter of the property with a detour.”

“Again?” Stiles groaned. “Why does Bobby own so much land?”

“So I can make you miserable,” Dean said clapping Stiles on the shoulder. “And don’t forget the detour.”

“Where’s the detour go?” Stiles asked warily sidestepping away from Dean.

Dean laughed. “You’ll see,” he said starting out at an easy pace and twisting around when he realized Stiles wasn’t following. “That is if you can keep up.”

“Oh fuck you,” Stiles called, obligingly beginning to jog after him. “I didn’t even puke last time.”

* * *

“So where is this detour taking us?” Stiles asked a little breathlessly for the fifth time. His endurance had improved greatly over the past weeks; they were halfway through their run and he was only slightly winded.

“You’ll see,” Dean repeated. He could practically hear Stiles roll his eyes.

“You keep saying that,” Stiles puffed, “and I don’t think you realize how creepy it is.”

“What? It’s not creepy,” Dean declared turning to look at Stiles over his shoulder. “How is it creepy?”

“Dude, you’re taking me somewhere deep in the woods and all you’ll say is ‘you’ll see.’ That’s creepy,” Stiles said pausing to take a few deep breaths. “It’s like _are you gonna murder me and hide my body out here_ levels of creepy.”

Dean furrowed his brows and slowed his pace. “I’m not going to murder you and hide your body,” he said seriously because Stiles only sounded like he was half joking.

“Then what are we doing out here?”

Dean smirked. “You’ll see.”

“You’re despicable,” Stiles muttered.

“Funny. Most people say I’m charming,” Dean said pushing Stiles in front of him.

Stiles huffed and swatted his hand away. “Charmingly despicable?”

“Yeah,” Dean said pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Something like that.”

“Okay, now that I’m in front, can I please know where we are going?” Stiles asked.

Dean laughed. “Just keep following the trail.”

“There is no trail,” Stiles whined. “Wait. We’re not lost are we? You didn’t get us lost and then shove me in front to blame it all on me did you?”

“No, the trail is marked on the trees, moron,” Dean said pointing to the faded X markings on the trees. “My brother and I mapped this trail out when we were teenagers and stumbled upon…” he paused letting Stiles round the next bend.

“Wow,” Stiles breathed taking in the sight of the clearing and small pool of water fed by a gentle stream. “Now I’m thinking you brought me here for precisely the opposite reason of killing.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “What the hell is the opposite of killing? Letting you live?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Stiles said still staring at the clearing. “We don’t exactly have the right anatomy for that to work.”

“You know what,” Dean said. “I don’t want to know. Anyway. My brother and I found this. Sammy really loved this place, said it was quiet enough to let him think. Me, I just liked to come swim.”

“Dude, it’s April in South Dakota,” Stiles said. “There’s no way in hell I’m swimming.”

Dean arched an eyebrow at him. “Obviously. It’s like forty degrees out, maybe.”

“Then why are we here?”

Dean sighed. “Because I thought you might appreciate some quiet time,” he said crossing the clearing to sit on one of the larger boulders. He settled into his usual spot look out across the clearing and letting himself miss Sam for a moment while Stiles wandered over next to him. The last time he and Sam had come here had been the day Sam told him he’d applied to colleges almost three years ago. The news that he’d been accepted into Stanford and planned on leaving had come in a motel room in Nebraska the day Sam left.

“In case you didn’t notice,” Stiles said finally taking a seat. “I don’t really do quiet time.”

“You get pretty quiet when you’re reading or researching,” Dean commented.

Stiles shrugged. “Outwardly maybe, but not in my head. Quiet doesn’t really do good things for my head.”

Dean leaned down scooping a handful of pebbles from the sandy ground and tossed one into the water with a small plop. “Then maybe we should talk,” he said when the ripples faded away.

Stiles eyed him warily. “About what?”

“Us.”

Stiles squinted. “This is starting to sound like you brought me here for illicit reasons again. Before you go any further let me save you the embarrassment. It’s not you it’s me. I’m just not ready for commitment. I’m actually a little bit gay. I have a baby. I set fires to feel joy. You’re not the one for me. It’s ineffable. I hope we can still remain friends.”

“Bobby thinks you don’t trust me,” Dean remarked when Stiles finally took a breath. Stiles blinked, mouth half open to continue his inane list of whatever he’d been rambling about. Dean threw a pebble into the still water and watched the ripples spread out before fading away. “But I think you do. At least a little.”

Stiles shut his mouth and dug the toe of his shoe into the sand ducking his head. “It’s not you that I don’t trust.”

“So you do trust me?” Dean pushed.

“Enough,” Stiles said picking up a decent sized rock and turning it over in his hands. “I trust you enough.”

Dean nodded slowly, and there was a small flush of warmth that came with Stiles admitting he trusted Dean even if it was just a little. “I can work with that.” He let silence drift between them for several long moments before saying, “You know, my dad, he acts like he’s a real hardass. I mean he is a real hardass, but he won’t, like, hurt you or anything. You don’t have to worry about—”

Stiles squinted in confusion ceasing his fiddling with the rock. “What are you talking about now?”

Dean blinked in surprise, mouth hanging open for a moment halted midsentence. “Ah, well you said it wasn’t me you didn’t trust so I just assumed—”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t talking about your dad,” he said bluntly.

“Then who…” Dean frowned, furrowing his brows deeply a moment before smoothing them out and raising them in an expression of pure surprise as the pieces clicked together. “You? You were talking about you? I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t you trust you?”

Stiles huffed tossing the rock into the water with a loud splash as he stood. “Can we not talk about it?” he said brushing dirt off his hands and raising his shields back up to normal height from where Dean had managed got get them lowered.

Dean rose to his feet putting a hand out to stop Stiles, refusing to let those shields go up all the way. “Hold up, no. You said you’d tell me, so talk.”

“When did I say that?”

“In Oklahoma while you were trying to get herpes from the bathroom floor,” Dean reminded him.

“I believe I actually said I’d tell you if I stayed. Which hasn’t been determined yet so,” Stiles said waving his hands like he was brushing the conversation away nonchalantly. 

“Why are you so intent on not talking to me about anything? Four fucking weeks and the only personal thing you've really talked about is your damn mother!” Dean said and the moment the words were out of his mouth he knew he’d gone too far in the exact opposite direction he needed to go if he wanted Stiles to open up. 

Stiles scoffed narrowing his eyes and drawing further away. “Because you don’t need to know.”

“What if I want to know?” Dean asked trying to gentle his tone and salvage the conversation. Because he wanted to know; he did. He wanted to know why Stiles didn't trust him or his dad. He wanted to know why Stiles didn't trust himself. He wanted to know about Stiles' friends and family. He wanted to know why Stiles didn't sleep and why he often woke from nightmares when he did. He wanted to know why Stiles needed to be a hunter. 

Stiles shook his head, expression closing down as it so often did whenever Dean tried to have a serious talk with him. Well, fuck that, it wouldn’t happen this time. Stiles shot him another skittish look then went to leave taking several hurried steps away when Dean followed after him.

“Hey,” Dean said grabbing his arm. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Stiles snapped.

“Stop internally freaking out like you do every time I try to get anything remotely resembling an honest and personal answer from you!” Dean shouted. “Why can’t you figure out that I’m trying to help!”

Stiles yanked his arm free and stepped back a few feet eyeing Dean suspiciously.

Dean laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head and swiping at his mouth with a hand. “You really don’t trust me or my dad at all, do you?”

Stiles didn’t answer dropping his gaze to the forest floor.

“Why not?” Dean demanded. “And don’t give me some crap answer this time.” 

Stiles swallowed looking everywhere but at Dean in a way that suggested he was thinking of lying. Dean was prepared to command honesty again when Stiles said quietly, “You’re hunters.”

Dean actually blinked at that, the answer being far from what he'd expected. “Yes, I know,” he said not bothering to filter out the mockery. Stiles’ expression closed off a little more at that, and Dean wanted to smack himself. He schooled his tone to something more inquisitive. “That’s why you sought us out isn’t it?”

“Do you remember when I said my friends back home wouldn’t be happy about me hanging out with you?” Stiles asked tugging on the cuffs of his sweatshirt and crossing his arms.

Dean nodded unsure where Stiles was going with this. “Yeah. Because me and my dad have a reputation.”

“It’s not just you,” Stiles said hesitantly. “Actually my friends don’t even know about you. They just don’t generally approve of hunters in general.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dean said trying and failing to wrap his head around such a notion in his mind. It just didn't make sense. “If they know about the supernatural why would they disapprove of hunters?”

“Because, Dean, you’re kind of killers,” Stiles said looking like he was a little afraid of Dean's reaction.

Dean was literally speechless for a moment, his mind turning the phrase over and over like a broken record. “Excuse me?” he finally forced out. Because that needed some sort of explanation. Dean and his dad were _not_ killers. They were hunters; they saved people. _That_ was their job. “My dad and I are not killers. Hunters are not killers. Where have you been the past few weeks if you think what we do is centered on killing?”

“I didn’t say it was. But you have to admit, Dean, hunters have killed a lot of people.”

“No it's not!” Dean rebuffed and Stiles took another step away, almost unconsciously. “We’ve killed a lot of things. Monsters that were hurting people.” He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the short strands and forcing himself to take a deep breath. “Where did this idea that hunters were killers even come from?”

Stiles swallowed shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Stiles," Dean repeated expectantly.

Stiles licked his lips nervously before beginning to speak, twisting his fingers into his hoodie as he did so. “About ten years ago there was a family in a town. Highly respected in the community. They were a large family, very close. A mother, a father, three children. Then there was an aunt and a uncle and their children. And another uncle. All good people.” Stiles paused as if giving Dean time to absorb the seemingly random information. “Then a woman came to town. She introduced herself to the middle child, the only boy, and he was smitten with her. He was young and she was pretty,” Stiles laughed derisively and the sound sent chills down Dean’s spine. “So she seduced him, infiltrated her way into the family, learned everything she needed to know, and then one night she locked them in the house, set it on fire, and watched eight people burn to death.”

Dean let his eyes close for a moment with a heavy sigh. Fuck. It couldn’t be Stiles’ family, he'd said he was an only child. But he’d said a lot of things that turned out to not be true. “Was it your family?” Dean asked. Stiles shook his head, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “Then what—”

“The woman was a hunter,” Stiles said, “and the boy was a werewolf.”

Dean sighed again pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to keep an even, nonjudgemental tone. “Then I’m sure the werewolves did something—”

“No,” Stiles interrupted, leaving no room for arguments. “They didn’t. And even if the werewolves had done something, three of those children and two of the adults were human and she knew that. My point, Dean, is that you hunters aren’t as black and white as you like to think you are and neither is the world.”

“So what is it exactly then? Are you afraid my dad and I might hurt you? Stiles, we’re not going to hurt you,” Dean said when Stiles simply stared at him.

Stiles shrugged. “How do I know that? I showed up out of nowhere, I need you but you don't need me, and you want me to trust the both of you?”

Dean rolled his eyes unable to comprehend the kind of inherent distrust Stiles had to harbor. Dean didn’t trust other people easily, not really, but he could trust other hunters enough to have his back on a hunt and not stab a knife in it. “For fucks sake, Stiles. We just won’t, okay?”

“But how do I know!” Stiles yelled. “Dean, you live in a world where the monsters have teeth and claws and follow rules that let you put their spirits to rest. I don’t live in that world. Mine is full of all of those monsters _and_ monsters that look like you and me. Monsters that have _guns_ and _knives_ and _fists_. Monsters that don’t follow rules. Monsters who snatch teenagers off of lacrosse fields or forcibly give people Haldol or burn children alive! So forgive me if I don’t trust you!”

The clearing rang with silence, the only sounds the soft gurgling of falling water and Stiles' labored breaths as he stared at Dean. “You’ve met more than that one hunter,” Dean said picking the least heavy bit of information from Stiles’ outburst and steering clear of the question of trust.  Obviously there was a lot of history there and things that would need fleshed out later. But for now, Dean just wanted to know about the other hunters.

“I’ve met several,” Stiles admitted.

“Did you trust any of them?”

Stiles shrugged slightly. “One. Well, two, you know, depending on how you define hunter. Ali was…she wasn’t really a hunter. Not like you or her dad.”

“You trusted her dad?” Dean asked filing the name Ali away. Not that the nickname of the daughter of a hunter would help him find much.

“Yeah, most of the time.”

Dean nodded. “So why isn’t he teaching you all this stuff?”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably. “Because it’s…complicated.”

“Oh I hate that word,” Dean complained. “Complicated. You know what’s complicated, Stiles? Shower sex. Threesomes between you, a girl, and a teddy bear. Figuring out how pterodactyls actually flew. String Theory. Particle physics, paleomagnetism, olfactory biology—”

“I got his daughter killed,” Stiles said speaking over Dean.

The air fled Dean’s lungs leaving him struggling to gasp out, “What?”

Stiles nodded rapidly and cleared his throat looking past Dean to the forest. “I got Ali killed,” he said again. “That’s why her dad’s not teaching me.”

“Oh.” And it was fucking insufficient, but Dean honestly didn’t know how else to respond to that.

“Yeah,” Stiles said wearily. “Oh”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter to be uploaded Sunday! 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training at Singer’s is mostly a pain in the ass. Literally. But Stiles is doing his best and he’s more stubborn than some people realize (and less okay than some people think).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katycat612 has convinced me to upload a little early. So here is the last chapter, enjoy!

**Respite**

“Ali?” Bobby repeated.

Dean scrubbed his hand over his face. It was late, or early depending on how he looked at it, and he was exhausted. He didn’t know how Stiles did it night after night. “Yeah. That’s what he called her. It’s probably a nickname,” he said.

“Maybe. And he said he killed her?”

“No,” Dean said a little forcefully because the distinction was important. “He said he got her killed.”

Bobby nodded. “And she was a hunter?”

“The daughter of one,” Dean said. “Don’t know her dad’s name. Just that he’s a hunter.”

Bobby sighed sitting back in his chair and pulling off his cap to scratch his head. “Well the name doesn’t ring any bells for me, but I’m not up on the names of the children of most hunters I know.”

And Dean had figured as much. He kneaded his temples trying to alleviate the building headache just a little bit. The house creaked and Dean reflexively glanced towards the stairs. Stiles had turned in early for once though Dean doubted he was actually sleeping. More than likely it was just a method of avoidance; Stiles hadn’t said a single word to him since the run, simply brushed off training and poured over books for the rest of the day in brooding silence. Dean hadn’t known what to say to him either, so he’d worked on the old Ford Bobby had said probably wouldn’t run again. He wasn’t wrong because Dean had fiddled with the damn thing for hours and couldn’t get the engine to successfully turn over; it felt like a lesson in futility.

“Did he give a name for the other hunter? The one who burned the family?” Bobby said pulling his cap back on.

Dean shook his head, stomach dropping a little again at the thought of the arson. Three human kids Stiles had said. He couldn’t imagine what kind of person would knowingly do such a thing to innocent people let alone children. _Children_. “No, he was pretty vague with the details.”

“Figures,” Bobby said. “There’s some thirty thousand odd cases of arson every year. Without more information we can’t go anywhere with this.”

“I just don’t understand how someone could do that to kids,” Dean said digging his fingertips into his eyes and rubbing hard.

Bobby sighed leaning his elbows on the table and draining his glass in one gulp. “Not everyone’s a good a person as you or your daddy, Dean. I know John didn’t let you and Sam around a lot of other hunters, still doesn’t, and there’s a reason for that,” he said gravely. “Some hunters just aren’t good people. They get into the business for all the wrong reasons and think the job gives them a license to hurt people. Others have been in the business too long and lost sight of what really matters.”

“So you think it was a hunter that burned those kids? You think one of us really murdered five humans?” Dean asked.

“Strong possibility,” Bobby said pouring himself another drink. “Definitely wouldn’t put it past some.”

Dean grimaced thinking back on the other things Stiles had let slip. Snatched teenagers from lacrosse fields and forced dosing of Haldol. “Bobby, do you know what Haldol is?”

“Haldol,” Bobby repeated sounding puzzled. “It’s an antipsychotic. Why?”

Dean blinked and glanced reflexively towards the stairs again letting the information sink in. An antipsychotic. “What’s it used to treat?”

“Ah, schizophrenia mostly. Sometimes Tourette’s and a variety of other things. Nausea, agitation, hallucinations,” Bobby answered. “And I’ll ask again. Why?”

“Just something Stiles said,” Dean muttered slouching a little in his chair. Bobby arched an eyebrow silently prompting an explanation. Dean sighed, “He listed three things specifically about hunters. Snatched teenager from a lacrosse field, a person forcibly given Haldol, and burned children.”

Bobby swirled his drink a little. “So kidnapping, drugging, and arson? Sounds like that hunter was a piece of work.”

“I don’t think it was just one hunter,” Dean admitted. “He called them monsters, as in plural. And he said he’s met more than one hunter. We know the burned children wasn’t him but the kidnapped teenager or drugged person…it could have be him.”

Bobby blew out a low breath. “Balls. That would go a long way to explaining exactly why he doesn’t trust us.”

And it really did. Truthfully Dean was surprised Stiles had even sought them out at all given his potential history with hunters, but he supposed it did make a little more sense then why Stiles was so focused on them rather than seeking out another hunter when Dad wanted to leave him behind. The problem was that none of it explained why Stiles didn’t trust himself—unless he really was a total nutcase, but Dean seriously doubted it—or what actually happened to get him to this point.

“But if we work off the assumption that the kidnapping and drugging was Stiles,” Dean said, “what’s the reason?”

“The reason?” Bobby echoed taking a generous swallow of his whiskey.

Dean nodded drumming his fingers on the table lightly. “Yeah, the why. Why would hunters kidnap and drug Stiles?”

“Maybe he was connected to the werewolf family. Maybe it was his family.” Bobby said.

Dean shook his head. “No, he said it wasn’t.”

“And you don’t think he might have lied about that?”

Dean shook his head again. It didn’t make sense for Stiles to have lied about it being his family when he could have just omitted the whole werewolf part in the first place rather than simply deny association with them.  “I don’t think so. Plus he told me he’s an only child in Oklahoma. That family had sibling sets.”

“So maybe he was just associated with the family?” Bobby suggested.

“Doubtful,” Dean said. “He would have been, like, ten years old.”   

“Children do have friends, Dean,” Bobby said. “Stiles could have been friends with any of the kids.”

“Yeah, but that was years ago. What’s the chance that the drugging and kidnapping is even linked to the fire? They could be entirely unrelated,” Dean said.

Bobby hummed thoughtfully and drained his glass once more. “That’s possible. The fire might have nothing to do with Stiles wanting to hunt. And the kidnapping and drugging might be related to whatever happened to make him start hunting.”

“This is all just speculation,” Dean groaned leaning his head on his hand. “We can’t figure any of this out without more information.”

“True,” Bobby agreed. “So what are you going to do?”

Dean rolled his head a bit to squint at the older hunter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You ignored the boy all day since you got back from your run, and he sat in here and sulked,” Bobby said. “He told you he got a girl killed, a hunter girl. Whether he caused her death or just feels responsible for it we don’t know. But he’s obviously expecting some sort of repercussion because this is the first night he _went to bed_ at a decent time since I met the kid. So what are you going to do?”

Dean blinked contemplating his answer seriously. True, Stiles admitting he got a girl killed had taken him by surprise, but it wasn’t all that unexpected considering. Dean had been working off the assumption Stiles was tightlipped because he didn’t want Dean and Dad to know what had happened. What he hadn’t considered was Stiles not wanting to talk about it because he was fucking traumatized or something. He wondered if his dad had thought of that and decided Dad probably had and didn’t care; to him getting Stiles to talk would be more important. And Dean understood that, he did, but he also understood not being able to talk about certain things. “I guess I keep teaching him,” he said after a moment. “For as long as I can.”

Bobby slid a full glass towards Dean and refilled his own. “Good. You hear from your dad yet?”

Dean frowned rubbing at his forehead and thinking back to the phone call he’d gotten. “Yeah, he called earlier. Said he’ll be back late tomorrow,” he said.

“And?”

Dean sighed. Dad had avoided the subject of Stiles, speaking over Dean when he tried to bring it up and talking in clipped tones about the hunt and expected arrival time back to Bobby’s. “He didn’t say anything about Stiles. Which, of course, means no.”

Bobby drained his drink leaning back in his chair and regarding Dean intently. If Dean didn’t know better he’d think the man was plotting. “Well,” Bobby said finally. “I guess we’ll see. Now drink that and hit the sack. You’ve got at least one more day with Stiles, best to be rested.”

* * *

Red. R-E-D. Red.

Purple. P-U-R-P-L-E. Purple.

Blue. B-L-U-E. Blue.

One time in third grade Stiles colored the sky of a picture green instead of blue. Lydia Martin had looked nine-year-old Stiles in the eye and told him with all the conviction her four-foot frame could muster that he was an idiot. Of course Stiles’ gut reaction had been to rebel against her pronouncement, and he spent the next few years trying to prove her wrong. He’d been largely unsuccessful for many years and an argument could be made that he was still unsuccessful. Regardless for the majority of those years Stiles was still in vehement denial of her opinion that he was lacking in the area of cognitive intelligence. At the moment, however, Stiles was inclined to agree with ten-year-old Lydia; he was a fucking idiot.

He told Dean about Allison. He told _Dean_ about _Allison_. Of all the breadcrumbs he could have dropped he gave Dean the name of _Chris Argent’s_ daughter. If they put the pieces together—Allison with Chris, Chris with Beacon Hills, Beacon Hills with werewolves, werewolves with Stiles—then it was only a matter of time before they figured it all out.

But Stiles wasn’t thinking about how he was an idiot and he certainly wasn’t thinking about Allison. He was thinking about colors.

Green. G-R-double E-N. Green.

And now repeat the whole thing in Spanish.

Amarillo. A-M-A-R-I-double L-O. Amarillo.

Naranja. N-A-R-A-N-H-A. Wait, no. Not an H. It was a J. N-A-R-A-N- _J_ -A. Naranja.

Rojo. R-O-J—

Stiles cut off his internal repetition as the door to the bedroom eased open, forcing his eyes shut and focusing on taking even breaths. It’d been a long time since he fooled anyone into thinking he was asleep, it was fucking impossible to do with werewolves, but he was a pro when it came to humans.

Dean muttered to himself, something too low for Stiles to catch, then he was crossing the room and Stiles’ bed was sinking below his weight.

Correction, Stiles used to be a pro.

Stiles forced himself not to react, keeping up the ruse of sleeping even if he was pretty sure Dean was aware that it was, in fact, a ruse. Besides, pretending to sleep had been universal language for ‘go the fuck away, I don’t want to talk’ since forever.

“I know you’re not asleep, Stiles,” Dean said pitching his voice low. Stiles tightened his hold on his pillow but otherwise stayed still. “It’s okay, you don’t half to say anything. Just listen. I wanted to…uh, apologize for what I said earlier.”

Stiles stilled, opening his eyes in surprise and feeling his heart speed up, acutely aware of how loud it sounded to his own ears. Dean wouldn’t be able to hear it though. Wouldn’t be able to tell how his words were affecting Stiles. Because he’d been expecting a lot of things after telling Dean about Allison, but an apology wasn’t one of them.

“It wasn’t fair of me to push you into admitting that. Especially when I knew how you react to being push,” Dean continued. “I know how it feels to not want to talk about something, to not really be able to, and it sucks. So I’m sorry, and I won’t ask anymore. You don’t have to tell me, even if you stay. I mean, I’ll listen if you want to, but you don’t have to.”

Stiles curled in on himself more, not caring that such movement would tell Dean he was actually listening, and stared resolutely at the wall trying to keep his breaths steady as his chest tightened and an uncomfortable heat built behind his eyes, threatening tears if he didn’t calm down. The intensity of the desire to actually tell Dean—to get all of it off his chest to someone who wasn’t there and didn’t know anything about the Hales, Scott, Nogitsunes, or the Alpha Pack and Darach—was so overwhelming it startled him. But the rush of hope that followed the thought that he could tell Dean was immediately smothered away by a poisonous panic. Because Dean didn’t know, and he couldn’t find out.

“All the same, I wanted to tell you that it, uh, doesn’t change anything. I’ll still teach you,” Dean said sounding incredibly uncomfortable. “If you want me to. So yeah…” He trailed off falling silent a moment then, “I think this is the quietest you’ve been since we met. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

The mild teasing tone proved to be the straw on the camel’s back and the tears flooded forward with a vengeance. Stiles hated it and did his best to make sure Dean wouldn’t know, pressing his face into his pillow and taking quick shallow breaths.

He felt Dean shift behind him, cursing under his breath before whispering, “I mean it, Stiles, I’ll listen if you want.”

* * *

“Good, remember keep your head in close, left foot traps my right foot, left arm traps my right arm. Bridge up and roll,” Dean instructed falling to the side easily as Stiles pushed up with his hips and tugged Dean to the left, neatly rolling on top and planting one hand on Dean’s chest while pulling the other back as if to punch. Dean grinned up at him. “Perfect. Let’s try it faster.”

Stiles obligingly resumed his position on the ground as Dean straddled him. “Say the steps as you go through them,” Dean said.

Stiles nodded reaching up to wrap his arms around Dean like he was giving the hunter an enthusiastic bear hug and making sure to keep his head tucked securely against Dean. “Pull the opponent down, protect my head, slide up, secure my hold,” he said firming up his grip with his right hand, “trap your foot, trap your arm,” he hooked his ankle over Dean’s keeping his knee pointed slightly out and up and moved his left arm over Dean’s gripping the hunter’s bicep and putting pressure on his elbow, “bridge up and roll,” Stiles finished pushing up and rolling.

Dean patted Stiles’ chest. “That was good,” he said then repeated the move lightning quick so Stiles found himself back under the hunter. “Now do it faster.”

Stiles tried to mimic Dean’s speed and did pretty well though he knocked his elbow into Dean’s when he went to trap the hunter’s arm which threw him off for a moment. But he recovered quickly and still managed to force the hunter over even though Dean was resisting the motion this time.

“Adequate. Remember you want the motions smooth. Snake your arm up and over,” Dean said demonstrating the motion on Stiles as he talked. “Executing it right is more important than executing it quickly.”

Stiles' next attempt was more successful though it was still markedly slower than Dean’s speed. Dean had him repeat the move seven more times before he was satisfied. “Nice. Before long you’ll be able to do something like this,” he said pulling Stiles down and knocking him to the ground in a flurry of motions too fast for Stiles to follow.

“Ow,” Stiles said pushing Dean away and frowning when Dean didn’t release him.

“I’ll let you go,” Dean said biting his lip like he was second-guessing himself, “if you answer one question with complete honesty. No half-truths or omissions or deflections. Complete honesty, okay?”

“I thought we were done with the prying,” Stiles griped squirming to try and get loose but Dean had him well and truly pinned. He struggled fruitlessly a moment more before sighing and flopping back to the hard packed earth. “Fine. Whatever. Ask your damn question.”

“Why are you here?” Dean asked.

Stiles blinked at the apparent benign question then rolled his eyes. “Because a brute of a hunter threw me in the dirt?” he said.

Dean huffed readjusting his grip on Stiles’ wrists. “I said honesty, Stiles.”

“That was an honest answer.”

“Why are you _here_ , with me and my dad?”

“You know why.”

Dean nodded. “I want to hear you say it.”

Stiles swallowed meeting Dean’s gaze for a split second before looking past the hunter. He licked his lips flexing his hands against Dean’s grip. “Because I’m tired of watching people get hurt,” he said. “I’m tired of being the reason people get hurt. And I’m tired of being helpless to stop it.”

Dean let him go but held his gaze, speaking with all the conviction in the world, “Then you’re right where you need to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes part four. Part five, featuring another hunt, will begin posting by September 27th. 
> 
> As always you can find me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)
> 
> And finally, I want to thank you all for your comments, kind words, and kudos; I love and appreciate each and every one. It's a little funny because when I first started just writing bits and pieces of this series, I never intended to post it. I actually didn't even have and AO3, but I'm glad I decided to. So thank you all!


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